


go wait out in the fields

by cailures



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cailures/pseuds/cailures
Summary: Marcus is bad at agriculture.





	go wait out in the fields

**Author's Note:**

> For #9.
> 
> CAILURE MOD IS A SAINT.

**Kalends Martii**

"Tell me again why we agreed to this?" Esca says, shifting under the unaccustomed weight of his odd ceremonial finery.

"It's a festival of Mars," Marcus says, pitching his voice low enough that the droning priest won't hear. "I couldn't exactly tell the legate no."

"Yes, you could." He pauses. "Anyway, I thought your god lived in a cave."

"Quiet or they'll hear you," Marcus hisses, and then can't stop himself from adding, "And it's not that he _lives_ in the cave, that's just--"

"Are we supposed to be quiet, or not?"

Marcus doesn't dignify that with a reply. He knows without looking that Esca has a smug look on his face, but at least he stops talking.

The priest finally finishes his lengthy prayer over the newly dedicated altar--given in honor of the return of the Ninth's eagle, Legate Claudius Metellus said, although Marcus wryly notes that the name _Flavius Aquila_ appears nowhere in the inscription--and bows to the military delegation, then to the procurator and his group of magistrates. The assembly, Marcus included, relaxes into parade rest, ready to move on from the standing-at-attention part of the ceremony to the getting-drunk-on-the-procurator's-denarius part, and then quietly groans when said procurator holds up a hand and steps forward.

"Romans," he says, officiously extending one arm like a statue of Divus Augustus, "in honor of the return of the Eagle of the Legio VIIII Hispana, Caesar offers Triumphant Mars these olive trees. Long may they flower as a symbol of our hope for peace and prosperity in Britannia."

As the crowd murmurs in surprise, a group of slaves emerge from behind the line of magistrates, each hauling a scrawny olive in a terracotta pot. None of the trees even reaches the height of the altar; Marcus finds the whole display underwhelming, and apparently he is not the only one.

" _That's_ what olives look like?" Esca says, incredulous, as the priest launches into a formal gratitude for the offering.

"They're trees, Esca, they don't just appear full-grown," Marcus says, somehow feeling honor-bound to defend the offering, if only because he knows how expensive it must have been. "Besides, you can't fit a proper olive tree on a ship, they're huge."

"They're ridiculous. Does Mars even _like_ olives?"

Marcus shrugs. "Everyone likes olives."

"Better hope he likes sticks," Esca mutters.

The priest finishes his speech, and the crowd begins to disperse, no doubt hoping to find places at the long trestle tables set up in the forum for the festival feast. Esca claps him on the shoulder and unsubtly steers him towards the temple doors, and Marcus is glad enough to follow.

"Centurion Marcus Flavius!" the chief priest calls, and Marcus rolls his eyes heavenward before turning around and offering a proper salute.

"How may I serve Exalted Mars?" Marcus asks, ignoring Esca's exasperated yank on his arm.

The priest gestures towards the tiny olive trees. "It would honor the gods if you would accept one of these young olives," he says. "After all, your efforts are the reason they are here."

Marcus looks at the trees, counts them again--thirteen, an inauspicious number--and then looks back at the priest. "I would hate to dishonor the gods," he says, and then sighs resignedly at the priest's beneficent smile.

***

"So let me see if I have this right," Esca says as they leave the forum, because they don't have time to join in the feasting if they want to make it home before dark. "He made you take a baby tree--a tree dedicated to a god you don't even worship most of the time--because Romans think the number thirteen is unlucky?"

"And I'm sure British priests never do anything strange," Marcus says, glancing back at the hired porter walking three discreet paces behind them, staggering under the weight of the potted olive.

"Oh, no, our priests are fucking incomprehensible," Esca says amiably. "But somehow Romans are worse."

"Thanks, Esca," Marcus says. "I really appreciate that. Can we talk about literally anything else?"

"Of course," Esca says, and manages to be silent for a handful of heartbeats before adding, "And you know, this is a terrible idea, but it's still not as weird as the sun god who lives in a cave."

"Will you shut up about the Mithraeum already?!"

***

Legate's invitation or not, Marcus never would have gone to Londinium solely for a festival day; a cart waits for them at the western gates of the city, where Uncle's man of business hands over eight modii of flax for the spring planting. Esca helps the porter hand up the olive into the back of the wagon and then tosses the man a coin for his trouble.

"What tribe was he from?" Marcus asks, having caught the glint of silver and the man's startled look of gratitude. Perhaps it's ironic that what little of his pension he has drawn has mostly ended up in the pockets of impoverished Britons, but it pleases Esca to help his countrymen, and thus it pleases Marcus.

"Belgae, I think." Esca shrugs off his gaudy checked cloak and settles next to Marcus on the rough bench seat. "Hard to tell from his accent."

"Vale, Master Belgice, then," Marcus says, and flicks the reins.

***

The gnarled young olive spends the ride back to Calleva Atrebatum swaddled in sacks of linseed and, aside from a shed leaf or two, arrives none the worse for wear. The cheap clay pot--apparently the procurator's piety only extends so far--does not.

Uncle Titus eyes the wagon with bemusement. "I know you are not a farmer, Marcus," he says, "but I would never have expected you to try planting your first crop of flax in a mule-cart. Also, I don't remember telling you to buy a shrubbery."

Esca snorts and Marcus steps on his foot. "It's an olive, Uncle. The procurator made a festival offering of several of them to Mars."

"An offering, hmm?" Titus looks him up and down. "You don't look like an aspect of Mars to me."

"The priest made me a gift of it, because of...well." He spreads his hands and silently hopes that Esca won't elaborate any further.

"Well, indeed," Titus mutters.

Marcus shrugs, uncomfortable, and then ventures, "When I spoke with your man, he seemed to think we might be able to make it grow here."

"Oh, I'm sure he did," Titus says.

"I told him it was a bad idea," Esca says.

"I'm sure of that, too," Titus says, and then sighs. "Come on, then, we waited supper for you. We'll decide what to do with your little olive branch in the morning."

***

Esca thinks Marcus should give the olive to the temple of Mars Nodons in Calleva.

"I can't do that!" Marcus says, horrified.

"But everybody likes olives, you said," Esca points out. "If you don't want to give it back to Mars, maybe you could give it to the god you actually like?"

Uncle does an extremely poor job of disguising his laugh as a coughing fit, and Marcus glares at both of them before going to ask Stephanos instead.

"And how should I know the best place to plant it?" Stephanos says without looking up, continuing to fill the wax tablet in front of him with neat columns of numbers.

"Well," Marcus says, "you're Greek, aren't you?"

Stephanos makes a rude noise and doesn't look up from his ledger. "I'm a _scribe_ , Marcus Flavius, not a farmer."

"But--"

"And I'm quite busy with the accounts, as you see. Go bother your uncle."

Marcus rolls his eyes and shuffles out to the courtyard, dropping onto the garden bench with a dramatic sigh. "I swear he used to be much nicer to me," he complains, taking a chunk of bread with honey from the platter on Esca's lap.

Esca pointedly moves his breakfast out of Marcus' reach. "You were an invalid at the time."

"Why should that make a difference?"

"You were much less of a pain in the arse when you were dying," Esca says. "Trust me."

"Ugh." He looks thoughtfully around Uncle Aquila's winter-bare peristyle garden, then squints up at the sky. "We should find somewhere out of doors to plant it."

"I still think we should take it into town," Esca grumbles, but he goes to find a spade just the same.

***

"I talked to Stephanos."

Marcus looks up at Esca briefly and then goes back to prodding the damp soil. "I thought he didn't know anything about farming," he says.

"No, he just doesn't like you," Esca says. "He also thinks you're mad to try and plant olives in Britannia."

"It was a gift, Esca," Marcus says. "From a _priest_."

"So? That doesn't mean it will grow."

"Doesn't mean it won't."

Esca watches Marcus tip a little more water into the mounded dirt around the tree, and then sighs. "That dumb stick had better be as stubborn as you are."

"They say olive trees can live for hundreds of years," Marcus says.

"Maybe in Rome," Esca says. "Where, I'm sure you've noticed, we aren't."

"Venafrum," Marcus mumbles.

"What did you say?"

"The best olive oil in the world comes from Venafrum in Campania, not from Rome."

Esca punches his shoulder and walks away, muttering in British under his breath.

***

"I hear congratulations are in order," Stephanos says over breakfast on the Nones.

Marcus gives him a bemused look. "For what?"

"Your little tree," Stephanos says. "Somehow it's not dead yet."

"Of course it's--" Marcus breaks off and takes a deep breath, ignoring Esca's snickering. "Thank you, Stephanos, that's very kind."

"Don't mention it," Stephanos says.

"He means that," Esca says. "Really. He's tired of you talking about it."

Marcus narrows his eyes at Esca. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Now, now, children," Uncle Titus says. "I'm sure all of us are on the side of receiving the blessings of Mars for taking care of his tree. Especially if those blessings come in the form of olives."

"Indeed," Stephanos says, somehow still sounding judgmental.

"See?" Titus says. "Everyone likes olives."

***

The day before the Ides, it snows.

***

"Marcus."

Huddled on the garden bench in his heavy red wool cloak, Marcus continues to twirl a tiny frozen olive-sprig between his fingers and says nothing.

Esca sits next to him with a sigh, putting one hand on Marcus' shoulder. "Maybe it will recover," he says. "Trees freeze here every winter, but we still get cherries in the summer."

Marcus shakes his head and drops the twig. "It's a young tree, freshly watered. The ground is frozen solid."

"I'm sorry," Esca says. "I--I don't know why it was so important to you, but I know that it was."

"It's foolish," Marcus says.

"No, it's not," Esca says, "not if it matters to you."

"It is." He exhales, and his breath makes a cloud in the chill morning air. "My mother's father kept an olive grove, in Italia. She was far too good for my father, did you know? Proper Etrurian gentry, and she ran off to marry an equestrian's son who joined the legions because his father didn't have enough money to both maintain the census and secure him a tribuneship."

"That doesn't seem foolish at all," Esca says.

"I only ever saw it once," Marcus continues. "When I was small, before my father died. Avus was ill and he wanted to see her. So we went, and it was the most amazing thing I'd seen. The trees looked a thousand feet tall."

"Everything looks a thousand feet tall when you're six."

"True. But my mother said that all I could talk about for months after was how I wanted to make olives when I was a man. I didn't want to be a soldier until--later."

Esca is quiet for a long moment. "Is it still something you want?" he asks, finally.

"What?"

"To make olives," Esca says. "Does your mother's family still live?"

Marcus shrugs. "Most likely. They stopped speaking to her."

"There's nothing to stop them talking to you now," Esca points out. "If you want to grow olives, I'm sure you'd do much better at it in Italia."

"I don't _want_ to grow olives in Italia, Esca."

"Why not?"

"Because my place is here," Marcus says. "In Britannia, with you. I would never ask--"

"You don't _have_ to ask," Esca says. "I'm offering."

"Well, I'm refusing!"

"Good!"

"Good," Marcus echoes.

Esca sighs like he's been holding his breath for a long while, and rests his hand left hand on top of Marcus' right. "Glad we have that sorted out, then," he says.

"It appears so," Marcus says.

"Now let's go back indoors," Esca says. "Because I'm pretty sure my balls are frozen solid."

***

They do, after all, end up bringing the remains of the poor tree to a temple in Calleva, because Uncle Titus wants to make an offering to Minerva and olive branches are otherwise very hard to come by.

"Another god not your own," Esca says. "Doesn't Mithras-Sol-Invictus-Who-Lives-In-A-Cave ever get jealous?"

"Merciful gods, Esca, why are you like this?"


End file.
